Dying Bad (20 page)

‘It was about to go in your mouth.' Sarah suspected any smart arse remarks about Lily would have gone down like a concrete dinghy, effectively zipping Charlie's lips. Not that she'd let anything slip, but when asked about Brody the body language had been big. Sarah grimaced at the mental pun then glared at the phone.
Where the heck was he?
She drummed fingers on thigh, had a bunch to do before the brief. Rush hour traffic was a pain, and rain had just started spitting. ‘Surely you picked up how protective she is, Dave? She followed Lily round with her eyes? Hung on her every word? Mother Bear wasn't in it.'

He turned his mouth down. ‘Dunno about bears. Lily was more Goldi—'

‘Enough already.' She flapped a hand. Charlie's hero worship could explain her aversion to Brody though. There was no love lost there.

‘Maybe she fancies Lily?' Sarah's withering look didn't stop Harries warming to the theme. ‘Women get crushes, don't they?'

She rolled her eyes. ‘In your wet dreams, detective.'

‘Yeah you're right. If Momma Bear had a crush, it'd be curtains all round.'

‘Bee-itch.' She bridled a touch on Charlie's behalf. Dave didn't normally go in for personal remarks and certainly not sexist. ‘What's her size got to do with anything?'
Let alone the case.
If he didn't stop blathering, she'd never get her head round it.

‘Sorry, boss. But what a state to get in, carrying all that weight can't be healthy.'

‘Lily's scars weren't either.' They were old, long since healed, but the girl had obviously had problems.

‘Can't say I noticed, boss.'

‘Wasn't her arms you were looking at, Dave.' As for Charlotte, God knows why, but Sarah felt a sliver of sympathy for the young woman. ‘There could be good reason why Charlie's so big, Dave.'

‘Eating all the pies'd do it. And the cakes. And the . . .'

‘I get the picture.' She closed her eyes, laced her fingers, leaned her head on the rest. Hoped Harries would get the message.

CU DNBL8
Caroline grimaced as she deleted the text. What was so tough about typing: See you. Don't be late. She slipped the phone on the bottom stair, slung her coat on the banister, marched to the kitchen, mouth like a desert. Maybe textese was a generational thing. Kid-speak. Lazysod-speak more like. The reporter couldn't be doing with it, her every message a grammatically correct, properly punctuated, cleverly crafted missive-ette. Bottom line, top line, every line had to be about communication. And Amy's first string of initials had been virtually indecipherable. Caroline had read it – tried anyway – in the car twenty minutes ago, put through a call instead. The girl wanted a meet to test the waters before deciding whether to commit to an in-depth interview.

Caroline grabbed Evian from the fridge, raised it in silent toast.
Thanks Ruby. I owe you.
She'd maybe celebrate with a proper drink this evening. If Quinn was in expansive mood as well, she'd even make it a double. But that was counting chickens territory. Amy came first in the pecking order. And getting her to talk openly was by no means a done deal.

God, she was thirsty. She drank half the contents, ran the back of her hand over her lips. She had a sneaking suspicion she'd end up paying the girl, too. Amy hadn't come right out and asked for moolah, but the hints couldn't have been heavier. How much is it worth? was pretty unambivalent. Caroline sniffed. Max Clifford had a lot to answer for. The world and its aunt was media savvy nowadays.

Snatching the phone, she took the stairs two at a time. Tape recorder and transcript still lay on the desk where she'd abandoned them the other night. Sitting down, she ran through her notes, refreshed her memory, prepared to tackle the rest of the tape. She'd need to keep Amy on track this evening, couldn't afford to keep ‘She Who Must Be Obeyed' Quinn twiddling her thumbs. Shouldn't be a problem. The girl's proposed venue was a playground a stone's throw from the Hemming pad in Harborne. With the best will in the world it'd be a damn sight too parky to hang around. With a bit of luck she'd make it to the Queen's Head before Quinn. Give herself a head start, as it were. Mind, she needed to finish her homework first.

Pen in mouth, she cued the tape, hit play . . .

‘Of course I didn't judge her. I still don't. How could I? Amy's my baby, my little girl. She always will be. If I blamed anyone it was myself. Why hadn't I protected her? Why hadn't I questioned her more about where she was going, who she was seeing, what she was up to. I'd ask myself how could I possibly not have known what was happening? More realistically, how could I possibly have known? Not for one second did the truth occur to me. Why would it? Something so far removed from our lives? From normal existence? How could I even suspect that virtually every time she went out, my child was being repeatedly raped by men old enough to be her father, her grandfather?

‘It was worse for Ian, my . . . husband. Being the only girl, Amy was the apple of her daddy's eye. Is the apple of his eye. I'm sorry, it's so easy to slip into the past tense talking about what happened. In a way, you see, so much of our lives is . . . over.

‘To go back, when Ian found out what those . . . animals . . . had done to her, a part of him died. And another part of him wanted to kill. I saw it. You know how they say when someone hears bad news they crumple? I'd never seen it before but that's what Ian did. He fell to his knees, clutching his chest. I thought . . .

‘I swear he aged ten years in two minutes. In Ian's eyes he'd failed, you see. It was his job to look after his precious princess.

‘I know what Ian thinks, but . . . I don't blame him. And you know what? I don't blame myself any more. I know exactly who's to blame for violating my daughter, ruining her childhood, potentially wrecking the rest of her life. And I hate every cell of . . .'

Shit. Caroline stopped the tape, answered the phone.

‘I can give you an hour tonight, Caroline.'

Give?
She very much doubted Jas Ram was into the free economy. ‘What time?'

‘Grab a pen. And listen up.'

S
arah wrote the word again, added a question mark, underscored it, stared at her efforts, willed enlightenment. ‘Bod? What's it mean?' Tapping her lip, she spoke quietly, almost to herself. Richard Patten leaned back in the chair opposite, desert boot resting on denim-clad knee.

‘Devil if I know, Sarah. Bod
ies
are my territory.' The pathologist's appearance in her office was rare. Good though it was to see him, he'd brought more questions than answers. And the pack of chocolate Hobnobs they'd almost polished off between them. She suspected the personal touch was to compensate for what he saw as a professional, if not error, then oversight. He'd already apologised for not spotting it sooner. Bod had been written in blue ink on the upper arm of the Chambers Row murder victim.

‘The lettering's small and if it registered earlier at all I just assumed it was part of the design.' He took a sip or two of coffee, kept his gaze on her over the rim of his Styrofoam cup.

Nodding, she laid down the pen, recalled the body on the slab, virtually covered in lurid tattoos. If it was Richard's failing, it was hers too. ‘But you took a closer look this afternoon?'

‘I'll not lie to you, it was more luck than judgement, Sarah. We needed to move the body.' He flicked a dog hair off the hem of his jeans. For the first time she clocked he wasn't wearing his wedding ring. ‘I just happened to notice the slightly different colouring.
Then
I took a closer look. Even then, I read it first as dad. Probably 'cause there's an ever so tasteful “Mum 4 ever” lower down the arm. “For” written as a number, can you believe?' He shook his head. ‘Anyway . . . dad seemed odd given the nature of the tattoo.'

‘A bird, you said?' Frowning, she crossed her legs. Needed to keep an eye on the time. Brief o'clock was fast approaching.

‘Ye-es. A bird, Jim, but not as we know it.' He waggled an eyebrow. ‘Apologies to Spock.'

‘Spock never said that line anyway.' She smiled. ‘He's always misquoted.'

‘Like, “Beam me up, Scotty.” No one said that either.' He hunched forward, elbows on knees. ‘You're not a closet Trekkie too, are you?'

Patten was a Trekkie? She masked a cross between disappointment and amusement, not difficult. ‘This bird . . .' Reached for a can of Red Bull.

‘Right, sorry, yes. It's grotesque. Think Edvard Munch's take on a Quentin Blake phoenix. You know, mythical creature, long tail . . .'

Rises from the ashes. Yeah, yeah. She raised a palm. ‘Can you get me pics? I need to see the word blown up.'

‘Already in hand. I just popped by so you'd be the
second
to know what I'd found.' The skin crinkled at the corner of his eyes. ‘I wish I'd come through with it sooner.'

Whatever ‘it' is. ‘Don't beat yourself up, Rich. It may not figure either way. 'Til we find out what it means, we won't know.' She wondered vaguely why he hadn't just put in a call.

‘Until
you
find out, detective.' He drained the cup, tossed it in the bin, sprang to his feet. ‘Thanks for the tea.'

She curved a lip. ‘It was coffee.'

‘God, my day's just packed with insight, isn't it?' Rueful mouth turned down, he tapped a salute. ‘See you round.'

She smiled. Patten was the only man she knew with a legible wardrobe. Tiny white writing on the back of today's black T-shirt read: I see dead pixels.

‘Rich?' Struck by a totally unrelated thought.

He turned at the door, bowed his head, mock servile. ‘Ma'am?'

‘Could he have written it on himself?'

His brown eyes narrowed fractionally as he gave it some thought. ‘In theory, I guess. It's on his left arm. Most people are right handed. I need to have another look at the angle of the writing. I'll get back to you. Is it important? I mean, Sarah, even if he could, why the hell would he want to?'

Aye therein lies the rub.
She couldn't put it better herself.

‘Why the hell would who not want to do what? See you, general.' Baker breezed in, helped himself to a couple of biscuits. Glancing over his shoulder, Sarah realised General Patten – nickname long bestowed by Baker – had beat a hasty retreat. ‘I'm putting a biccie behind me ear. Man has to keep up his strength, you know.'

Stifling a sigh, she walked round the desk, closed the door after him. ‘Where've you been, chief?'

‘I had an appointment.' The tone brooked no argument. When she looked round, he'd helped himself to her seat, too. ‘Go on then –' licking chocolate from a finger – ‘what was the general pontificating about?'

Arms folded, she walked to the window, perched on the sill, related what Patten had found. ‘He was answering a hypothetical question. I'd asked if the guy could have written it on himself. Rich came back with why the hell would he want to.'

‘Misses the point big time.' Baker sniffed. ‘Question that needs asking's – why would
anyone
want to?'

‘Silly me,' she simpered. ‘If only I'd thought of that.'

He pursed pensive lips, reached for a third Hobnob. Not that she was counting. ‘Bod. Body. Boddington's. Bodleian. Stiff sups bitter in toff library.' She gazed at the ceiling. ‘It's called thinking outside the stationery-box, Quinn.'

‘Beer-drinking stiff? That's thinking outside the sodding coffin, chief.'

‘OK, OK.' An airy wave of the hand sent crumbs flying over the desk. ‘Not the posthumous imbibing bit, too surreal, but anything that gets a cop's thought processes going.' He held out empty palms. ‘I rest my case.' And reached for the pack.

‘Glad to hear it.' She rescued what was left, tipped them into her drawer. ‘Case isn't resting though, chief.'

‘Not far off.' He ran through his take on the findings at the squat, the alibis that had been blown out of the water. She realised that wherever Baker had sloped off to – as per – he'd kept on top of developments.

Standing, he slipped a hand in his pocket. ‘Strikes me, Quinn, we're damn near throwing the book at Wilde and Brody.' Winking, he pulled out another biscuit. ‘If not the Bodleian.'

T
he frisson in the air at the brief was almost tangible. It vied with the metaphoric scent of blood: Brody and Wilde's. For the first time in several days, Sarah saw the squad energised, enthused. Saw being the operative word. While she perched on the corner of a desk swinging a leg, chief cheerleader Baker basked centre stage. The chief's offer to run the late brief was similar to Don Corleone's in
The Godfather
. Refusal wasn't an option. She was inured to Baker adopting a more hands-on approach the nearer the squad got to a result. Right now, he put her in mind of a hyperactive octopus.

‘As you know –' slinging his jacket on her desk – ‘we can charge the little scrotes any time with the public order stuff, possession, assaulting a police offer – the lad's out of hospital by the way – the attack on Agnew, criminal damage, Uncle Tom Cobbly etcetera. But right now . . . we're only a gnat's pisspot away from nailing the buggers for the biggies.'

Sarah traced her lip with a finger. The biggies. It was one way of describing the assault on Foster and murder of Tattoo Man. She glanced at the dead guy's photo pinned slightly askew on one of the whiteboards. Why had no one come forward with a name? She'd make damn sure the next news release majored on the distinctive as well as extensive body art. Made a mental note to get a DC to chase the ink parlours, extend inquiries beyond the Midlands.

Wilde and Brody certainly weren't going anywhere. The bog standard twenty-four-hour detention period had been extended by a further twelve. Baker made it clear to every officer in the room, he wanted every second to count before questioning resumed again first thing.